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By 

Mayme E. Finley 
led Lodge, Montana 




POEMS 



By 

Mayme E. Finley. 



Copyright Nov. 20, 1919 




"THE CALL OF THE CANYON.' 



I long to go where the Yellowstone is 

falling, 
And there, enchanted, watch the great 

white spray, 
I hear the Spirit of the Canyon calling, 
Calling, softly calling, day by day. 
Echoes thru the mighty gorge rebounding 
'Til the vibrant sound has died away 
Like the deep tones of "Some Harp" 

resounding. 
Ah, 'tis here the Master Hand holds sway. 



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"THE OLD WEST." /JO ,% V 

— ^vV 

By \ 

Mayme E. Finley. 

The "Old West, the "Wild West," 

The West of yesterday, 

When the West was new, 

And the West was true. 

The "Old Wesft" has passed away. 

The "New West," the "Modern West," 
Linked with the world's highway. 
With auto and steam 
And flying machine. 
There is no "West" today. 

Then let us keep within our hearts 
This wonderland of Yellowstone Park, 
Here Uncle Sam will do his best 
To preserve one spot of 
The "Old Golden West." 



SHOSHONE LAND." 

The Home of 
"Buffalo Bill." 



By 
Mayme E. Finley. 

Into the land of "Shoshone," so lone, 

Rode "Buffalo Bill" to claim his own! 

For the desert had called, and he heard 
the cry; 

The desert was bare, and the desert 
was dry; 

But a brave heart saw and could under- 
stand 

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That "Shoshone River" would reclaim this 

land. 
For there in the "Canyon" of magnitude 
The walls of rock thru ages* stood, 
Waiting the hand to iclose the gate 
For the Shoshone waters to lie in wait; 
And wherever the waters of the Shoshone 

flows 
The desert blooms like a wild,wild rose. 

Now far and wide the fields of grain 
Sway in the breeze, and meadows green, 
With lowing herds, and the home of man; 
Where once the prickly pear and sand 
And the "Indian" trail, still there to see, 
Leading down to the banks of the Shoshone. 

Then into the "West" this, great man 

came; 
One of the builders — "William Cody," his* 

name ; 
Blazing the trail, that others might come, 
To dwell in the land of the shining sun. 
And a city arose which bears his name — 
"Cody," of Wyoming, on the Shoshone 

plain. 
And our children's children will bless the 

name 
Of "Buffalo Bill," of world-wide fame. 
He has gone to explore in the promised 

land, 
With comrades of that faithful band, 
Who are passing away — as the West has 

done, 
Into the annals) of history and song. 

He lies in state, on Mount Lookout; 
God's monument to the famous scout. 
Methinks his soul oft visits there 
To watch o'er the plains of the west, so 

fair, 
And smile to see his dreams* come true 
Of the Old West, gone — and to welcome 



'ODE TO THE FOREST RANGER" 

Of the 

Yellowstone National Park. 



By 

Mayme E. Finley. 

To the Faithful forest Ranger 

In your lodge among the pine, 

Where the snow creeps up in winter, 

Seem's the earth and sky entwine, 

Making one great snow-white billow; 

All the world is* lost from sight. 

Buried in the heart of Nature 

E'ne the (birds must take their flight. 

Does the call of duty keep you 

There to guard the trusting deer? 

With his soft brown eyes to greet you 

He has learned to have no fear, 

As you travel on your snow shoes 

O'er the lonely mountain pass. 

Where the herds of elk and buffalo 

Paw the snow to find the grass; 

There old "bruin" in his cave-home 

Sleeps the winter months away; 

While the coyote and the wild cat 

Slink about to catch their prey. 

In the comfort of your cabin, 

With the pine logs burning bright, 

Sending forth its cheery welcome; 

Gleaming far out in the night. 

Then you light your pipe — "Old Comfort," 

And the blue rings float away ; 

While the wild winds softly banter 

Fleecy clouds to come and play. 

Then your thought begin to wander 

To the scenes of summer days, 

When the stranger comes to worship 

At the Mountain's lofty peak, 




At the Yellowstone's "Grand Canyon." 
Marvelous — No tongue can speak 
To tell the story of it's gradeur; 
Rainbow hues and emerald green; 
God and Nature vied to paint it 
Like a sunsfet I h&ve seen 
Awe-inspiring, thrills electric 
Fills the human ibeing through 
As one gazes on such splendor, 
Twelve hundred feet below. 
Where the Yellowstone Falls, over 
Churned to fury, foam and spray, 
O'er the rocks worn down through ages, 
Rushing on — in endless fray. 
On the lofty spier 'the eagle 
Builds her nest and rears her young, 
Unmolested save the booming 
Of the Falls of Yellowstone. 



'MY CASTLE.' 



By 

Mayme E. Finley. 

Were I to live in castle walls, 
And walk thru marble-polished halls; 
And say: "This grandeur all is mine." 
Ah ? me, I'm sure that I should pine 
Like some wild bird 
To beat my fetters free. 
A gilded cage attracts the eye, 
But "wild birds" oft timeis droop and die 
Unless* born in captivity ; 
Far better where the mountains ring 
With songs the wild bird learns to sing, 
Where Nature in her grandeur dressed, 
Tas there that I would 'build my nest; 
God's templed shrine 
He has prepared for thee. 
The wild wind's chanting thru the pine 
To_ fill the soul with thots divine, 
This is my castle home — "Pahaska Tepee." 



"THE MEN WHO BLAZED THE TRAIL." 

When the West was new and boundless*, 
And the Red man roamed the plain; 
Counting his, the herds of buffalo; 
Counting his, this vast domain; 
'Til a band of white men entered, 
Danger that would make hearts quail; 
Yeit they came, they saw, they conquered, 
These first men who blazed the trail. 

Here they found the fertile valleys 
In the mountains, wealth untold; 
Yet they knew the pangs of hunger, 
For they could not eat the gold; 
But they kept theiir eyes still westward; 
They were men who did not fail 
When the hour called for duty — 
Brave, true men, who blazed the trail. 

Some have perished on the desert; 
Some, in nameless* graves, to sleep ; 
Some are written down in glory; 
Some are left, their watch to keep.; 
Some, in stone are icarved — a sentinel. 
Few are left to tell the tale 
Of the hardships they endured 
For our sake — To blaze the trail. 



"MEMORY'S PICTURE. ^ , 

Much has been written, and steid, and sung, u 

Of the glorious days when the "West" was 

young; 
When our "home" was the saddle; the 

stars by night 
Was the roof of our mansion; the moon 

our light. 
How sweet were our dreams of a far-away 

home ; 
While the breeze softly whispered; the 

pure ozone, 
Like rare old wine, through our beings 

crept 
To vanquish fatigue, while the wanderer 

slept ; 
And then in the dawn, when the day was 

new, 
The meadow lark sang and the lone curlew 
Sailed away with a cry, in his* plaintive 

way; 
While the first faint streak of a new-born 

day 
Turns to pink and gold, the skies of blue; 
Chasing away the night and dew; 
Reaching far out o'er the boundless plain; 
O'er the vast open free, in its quiet reign. 
No artist can picture, no tongue or pen 
Can portray, the beauty of Nature's scene, 
Only God, the Creator, Artist Supreme. 



"BIG HOR^/' 

Mighty Big Horn, murmering waters, 

Close beside thee, was iour home. 
We, the "Crows," a peaceful people, 

Through your valleys did we roam 
For the wild deer, who ait Sunset, 

Came to drink his thirsting fill, 
Only raised his head to listen, 

As the night bird sang his trill. 
Knew he not, the stinging arrow 

Would find its way into his heart, 
Like the sorrow to the "Red Man," 

When from Big Horn he must part; 
Where the blue grass waved and rustled, 

As the breeze went singing o'er; 
Making waves like shimmering billows, 

Down to meet the Big Horn's shore. 
Heard you ithen the pheasant droning, 

Like the Indian's raw-hide drum, 
As he dances to the tom-tom 

For the Holy Spirit to come 
And bless his people — trusting children, 

In God's happy hunting ground. 
Where the tepee's cast their shadows 

On the waters of Big Horn; 
There at sunset heard the coyote 

From ithe distant (Kill and plain, 
Like a spirit lost in wandering, 

Came the answer in refrain. 
In the cottonwood the hoot owl 

Wakened from his peaceful rest; 
Asks Who! Who! are you to bother? 

In this lonely wilderness. 
O'er the west the "Sun Gods" glory 

Burst in splendor, wondrous morn, 
Casting red upon the tepees, 

On the banks of olid Big Horn. 
Let me stay; Oh, then forever 

In my Lodge on old Big Horn. 



"THE RED MAN'S BURIAL" 

v^ — V^awmi ^ % ' g 

Give me the Red Man's burial, ^ ' ' x/vo ^ A V 
Out where the winds roam free ^ 

'Not in. Earth's dark chamber, 
But out on the lone pine tree; 
Out where the soft ibreeze whispers, 
Lulling my soul to rest. 
Safe in its sheltering branches 
Like a child on its mother's breast. 
Where the meadow lark sings* above me, 
The coyote howls out on the plain; 
The wild winds soughs through the 

. branches, 
While weeping like tears, is the rain. 
Bound in my rawhide casket 
With thongs that have dried like steel; 
Where the gray cliff stands like a sentinel, 
Guarding in mute appeal. 
Where naught will disturb my slumber ; 
The eagle soars high in his flight; 
The sun will smile down in the daytime, 
The sJtars will look on through the night. 
I care for no pomp or prestige; 
Only a farewell prayer, 
Asking of God, admittance 
For my soul to enter there. 
Yes, I want the Red Man's burial; 
Build no mausloeum foir me; 
Sealed with cold and gathering mould, 
But out, on the lone pine tree. 




"THE OLD MESS WAGON ON THE 
^ PLAIN." 

^'V 

Smoke of cottonwood and sage brush 

Of the camp fire, when at night, 

Gathered around the old mess wagon, 

In the shadowy, lurid night; 

Sweet aroma of the coffee 

Wafited on (the evening air, 

Mingled with the sizzling bacon; 

Who could wish a better fare. 

Heaped with coals the round doutch oven 

Filled with biscuits, golden brown; 

Never was there iany better 

Baked by chefs of great renown. 

Oh, the keen delight of hunger, 

Would that I might dine again 

With the boys who used ito gather 

Around the old me* wagon on the plain. 

Then we spread our saddle blanket 

Near the embers dying low, 

While we itaiked of home and another, 

And the days of long ago. 

While the night winds softly whispered, 

Like an anthem's sweet refrain, 

As it lulled us into slumber 

Around the old mess wagon on the plain. 



(Author's note.) This book of western 
thot would seem incomplete without some 
word of reverence for our brave "Boys" 
who gave their life in the world's most 
terrible war, that "we" might live. 



"THE ANSWER." 
"THEY SHALL NOT SLEEP." 



In answer to the beautiful lyric of the 
war, written by Lieutenant-Colonel Dr. 
John McCrae, who now sleeps in Flander's 
fields. 



By 
Mayme E. Finley. 



For every life in "Flanders" given, 
There is a new life born in Heaven; 

"You are not dead. 
To us you live, a sacrifice, 
To cleanse this world of greed and vice; 
As He, who died upon the cross, 
Gained life anew — and life for us. 
We offer prayer for those laid low 
In Flanders' fields, where poppies grow. 
There is no dead, there is no death; 
"They whom God has given breath, 

Forever life. 
As wave sounds on the air does* fly, 
So doth the spirit of those who die, 
And now in Heavenly realms on high, 
Look down upon the bloody foe 
And smile to see the poppies grow, 

In Flanders' fields, 
The work you left for us to do, 
We pledge ourselves and hearts anew, 

"The faith to keep," 
That right must rule, and might must go, 
"As morning dawn and sunset glow, 
"Shine on the crosses, row on row." 
In fervent prayer we come and kneel be- 

for the shrine, 
In Flanders' field. 



"THE END OF THE TRAIL." 



By 

Mayme E. Finley. 

When you come to the end of the long, 

long trail, 
And you watch the last sun going down, 
Can you say to yourself, "I have won," or 

"I've failed"; 
Will your heart he afraid of the dawn? 
There is no turning back on the trail left 

behind, 
The bridges have all burned away, 
And the end of the trail may be near, or 

be far, 

For no mortal knows of the day. 

♦ 
When you come to the end of the long, 

long trail, 
And you know that life's* journey is o'er, 
You try with dim vision to catch just a 

a glimpse 
Of that promised, but far-distant shore ; 
How many camp fireis did you build on 

'the way? 
How many kind deeds have you done? 
Can you say in your heart, "It is well with 

my soul, 
I am ready, Oh, Lord, lead Thou on." 
Oh, then as you travel the long, long trail, 
Leave a guide post that points to the right, 
So the pilgrims who come, when our work 

is done, 
May find it a beacon of light. 
Blaze the trail good and plain; 
We will not pass again this way 
To the end of the trail. 



